


Bugged

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [22]
Category: Californication (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: F/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 13:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10387449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: The sick!fic people have been begging for





	

Hank was having a weird day.  He woke up feeling restless somehow.  He tried to write, but his brain wouldn’t focus.  Besides, there was a cramp in his shoulder that felt like a pulled muscle and his shoulders burned and ached when he typed.  He gave up by lunchtime and then he tried to eat, but food didn’t seem to agree with him so he put it away and went for a walk.

 

By the time he got home, he had a headache.  He took some Ibuprofen and wondered what time Stella would be home today.  She hadn’t been working on cases for a few weeks, but was doing something he didn’t fully understand that entailed analysis of departmental efficiency.  Some days she’d been home by mid-afternoon to type up reports, some days she wasn’t home until eight or nine o’ clock.

 

It was after seven when she got home that night.  His headache had waned, but the ache in his shoulders was still there and had traveled to the middle of his back as well.  It made him feel old and cranky.  Now that Stella was home, he wanted to pout at her and have her tell him he wasn’t old or cranky.  He met her at the door, like a puppy or a child desperate for attention, but she looked almost as miserable as he felt. 

 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, massaging her shoulders lightly as she held the wall to unzip her boots.

 

“Tired,” she answered, swatting him off of her when she had one boot off.

 

“Want something to eat?  There’s leftover lasagne.”

 

“I think I’m just going to go to bed.”

 

“I might join you.”

 

“Not tonight, I have a headache.”

 

“That’s weird, me too.  I mean, I did.  It’s gone now.  Sort of.”

 

Stella was already undressing as she slowly slunk upstairs.  She had her blouse off and over her arm and worked on unbuttoning her pants.  All the while, Hank was two steps behind her, ripping his own shirt off and unzipping his jeans, thinking how strange it was to be in a race to remove clothes when nothing was going to happen.

 

“I’ll take that,” Stella said, reaching up to prevent Hank from overhanding his balled up t-shirt into the hamper as he followed her into the bathroom.  She turned her back to him and he unclasped her bra for her before he opened his fly to relieve himself.

 

“My back has been killing me all day today,” he said, eyes closing slightly at the relief of pressure on his bladder.

 

Stella slipped his shirt on and plucked her toothbrush out of the holder.  She hummed in acknowledgment and pasted her toothbrush.  He flushed and kicked off his jeans while she rinsed and spit.  She pulled her hair into an elastic to wash her face and he washed his hands next to her.  After he wiped them dry, he put his hands on her hips and leaned down to kiss one of her shoulders as she bent over the sink and rubbed face wash into her cheeks.

 

Hank turned the bed down while Stella finished in the bathroom, throwing extra pillows onto the floor and out of the way.  He was settled before she came out, but he’d left the lamp at her side of the bed on so she could see.  He rolled towards her when she slipped between the sheets and put his arm over her.

 

“You’re too hot,” she mumbled.

 

“Mm, thank you,” he answered, nuzzling her neck.

 

“Hank.”

 

“Just saying good night.”  He planted a series of kisses in the crook of her neck and then rolled away.

 

“Good night,” she said, softly.

 

He startled awake in the dark.  Something had woken him, but he wasn’t sure what.  His eyes were too unfocused to read the clock, but it looked like it might be 12:23, or something approximating that time.  Stella’s side of the bed was empty.  He heard a noise that was like a cross between a cough and a groan and he stumbled out of bed, shivering slightly when he threw back the covers and exposed his sweaty skin to the air.

 

He weaved towards the dim light shining from the cracks in the bathroom door where it was slightly ajar and pushed it open.  He recoiled with a squint and brought his arm up to block the light.

 

“Stella?” he slurred.

 

Stella’s response was a deep retch and a cough over the toilet bowl.  Hank grimaced and fumbled blindly for the washrag that was always hanging on the hook next to the sink.  He wet it and crouched behind Stella as her body went stiff with another wave of vomiting.  Her hair was still in the elastic she’d had in when she went to bed, but it was looser.  He pushed sweaty strands of hair away from her face and tried to press the damp cloth to her face, but she shook her head at him.

 

“Go back to bed,” she panted.

 

“Can I get you anything?” he asked.

 

She shook her head again and weakly flailed one of her arms to shoo him away.  When he stood, it felt like a flow of ice water moved down his spine, so cold it burned.  Fresh beads of sweat trickled down his back and his gut clenched and throat tightened at the same time.  Quickly, he covered his mouth with one hand and rushed out of the room to the second bathroom, making it just in time to make an offering to the porcelain god.

 

“Fuck,” he said as he heaved, the curse strangled and mostly just a noise that echoed off the bowl.

 

When he finally sat back, his abdomen was quivering and he had a sour taste in his mouth.  His knees felt weak when he pushed himself to his feet, but he got up, flushed the mixture of half-digested turkey sandwich and bile away, and stumbled back across the hall.  Stella was still in the bathroom, arms curved around the toilet seat, eyes closed as though she were asleep.

 

“Sherlock,” he rasped, gagging at the taste of his own tongue.  “I think we might have the flu.”

 

“Whatever gave you that idea, Watson?” she mumbled, eyes still closed.

 

“Might have picked up some of your crack investigative skills over the years.”

 

She opened her eyes as he searched the medicine cabinet for something useful, but came out empty-handed.  He did take a swig of mouthwash to clear out the gross taste in his mouth though.  Stella gazed up at him with glassy eyes, giving sleepy little half blinks he would normally find alluring.

 

“I’m cold,” she whispered.

 

“You have vomit in your hair,” he answered.

 

Stella wrinkled her nose and groaned.  Hank wet the washcloth that had cooled on the sink where he left it and crouched down to clean her up a bit.  He helped her up and put his arm around her waist to take her back to bed.

 

“Hang on,” she said, stopping to take her own swig of the mouthwash.

 

Back in bed, she curled up against his back and hugged him close.  “You’re so warm,” she murmured.

 

The next time Hank woke, it was to Stella’s alarm clock, which he would’ve gladly smashed to a thousand pieces if he felt like he had the energy to do so.  Stella groaned in annoyance as she slowly rolled over to silence the alarm.  His body felt achy all over from head to toe.  Even his hair ached and the back of his ears ached.  Stella must’ve felt similar.

 

“How you feeling?” Hank asked.

 

“Like I ought to call in sick.  How are you feeling?”

 

“Like shit.  I’m going to tell my typewriter not to expect me today.”

 

“I don’t believe I’ve ever called in sick.”

 

“Well, you deserve to.”

 

Hank rolled over to face Stella’s side of the bed.  Her back was too him and she was half off the bed, arm outstretched and resting on the nightstand next to her alarm like she couldn’t bear to move after shutting it off.  He inched closer and then dragged her back into bed and moved her arms under the covers.  She made a noise that he couldn’t interpret.  Could’ve been in protest or in thanks.

 

Usually, Hank was terrible at being sick.  He hated feeling lousy and he wanted to make everyone around him feel just as lousy so they could fully understand his pain.  Karen had told him a thousand times he was worse than a child and she was right.  He was needy and immature and liked being taken care of.  Something about Stella’s misery kept all that at bay though.  He put his own illness aside and focused his attention on her.

 

“I’m gonna get dressed and run to the pharmacy,” Hank said, rubbing a bit of warmth into Stella’s arm.  “Tell me what you want or need and I’ll get it.  Where’s your phone?”

 

“Still in my bag, I think.  Downstairs.  Are you really going out?”

 

“Someone has to.  We need like, what...broth or something?  Fuck, if we were in New York, there’s this Jewish deli down the street that delivers.  Matzo ball soup cures everything.”

 

“The thought of food is not particularly appealing at the moment.”

 

“Don’t want to get dehydrated though, right?  Feed a fever, starve a cold?  Or is it vice versa?”

 

“I’ve no idea.”

 

Reluctantly, and with a groan, Hank slid away from Stella and got out of bed.  He felt flush with fever when he stood and it almost sent him back to bed, but he pushed through it and grabbed a pair of pants.  Every step he took seemed to take more energy than the last.  He broke into a sweat going back upstairs after grabbing Stella’s phone and he slid it under her hand that rested on her pillow.

 

“Hank,” she whispered, opening her eyes a crack and then snagging the pocket of his jeans with two hooked fingers before he could walk away.

 

“What?” he asked, bending to one knee.

 

Stella lifted a hand to Hank’s face, holding it to his cheek while her fingers moved over his forehead and across his brow.  She closed her eyes again and breathed deeply, exhaling with a sigh.

 

“You have a fever,” she said.

 

“Probably,” he answered, moving his own hand to her forehead and smoothing her hair back out of her face.  “So do you.”

 

“Hurry home?”

 

“You bet, babe.”

 

Her brows lifted before one eye opened and he grinned at her.  Of course he couldn’t get away with that one, sick or not.  He kissed her cheek and then pushed himself back to his feet while every muscle in his body seemed to protest.

 

“Thank you for going,” she said, as he shuffled to the door.  “I love you.”

 

“Call in,” he said.  “Go back to sleep.  I’ll be home soon.”  

 

The End

  
  



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